by Olivia Dade
“I’m very happy she didn’t fire me. Trust me on that,” Angie said. “But on this particular occasion, I was giving thanks that Tina came and left through the workroom. She didn’t see the public spaces at all.”
“Why wouldn’t you want her to see the rest of the building? The library always looks great. You make sure of that.”
Angie raised her head and looked at Penny.
Penny gave a little start. “Oh!” she exclaimed. “Oh, shit. Yeah, that would’ve been ugly.”
“No joke.”
Angie stood up, and Penny’s arm slid off her shoulder. The two women walked into the main library and gazed wordlessly at the signs Angie had plastered over every available surface a week or so ago.
Each poster featured Cupid, but not the baby version. No, this particular Cupid was all man. He stood bare-chested, wearing only a tiny white loincloth. Muscles rippled down his tight abs, strong arms, and long legs. A quiver of arrows lay on his back. He’d removed a single arrow and was holding it in one hand while gripping his bow in the other. His blond curls clustered in carefully created disarray around his chiseled features. He gleamed, as befitted a god. Or, alternatively, as befitted a male model who’d slathered baby oil all over himself.
The image: enticing. The professional judgment involved in displaying it: questionable. A firing offense? Given what Angie had heard today . . . maybe.
Below the image of Studly Cupid, she’d written: ATTENTION, ALL BATTLEFIELD BRANCH PATRONS! ARE YOU INSPIRED BY VALENTINE’S DAY? IF SO, WRITE THE HOTTEST, MOST WELL-WRITTEN SEX SCENE YOU CAN (UP TO 2,000 WORDS), PRINT IT OUT, AND TURN IT IN TO THE LIBRARY BY FEBRUARY 13. THE AUTHOR OF THE BEST ONE—AS JUDGED BY OUR STAFF—WILL RECEIVE A GIFT CERTIFICATE FOR A COUPLES MASSAGE AT MOUNTAIN VALLEY MASSAGE!
The contest: very popular among her patrons. The professional judgment involved in creating it: very questionable. A firing offense? Given what she’d heard today . . . probably.
Both the image and the contest itself could potentially lead to Angie’s imminent unemployment. But she had an even bigger problem: the text above Cupid. The text she’d giggled over and typed with such glee.
THINK YOU HAVE WHAT IT TAKES TO STIFFEN CUPID’S ARROW? THE LIBRARY CHALLENGES YOU: MAKE HIS QUIVER . . . QUIVER.
The tagline: hilarious. At least to Angie and the patrons who’d commented on it. The professional judgment involved in using it: dismal. A firing offense? Given what she’d heard today . . . abso-fuckin’-lutely.
Oh, Jesus. Oh, Jesus.
“If you cancel the contest, patrons will complain and you’ll get fired,” Penny whispered. “If you don’t cancel the contest and the administration finds out, they’ll fire you anyway.”
Angie pursed her lips. There was no need to respond. Penny had pinpointed the problem with her customary precision.
“You’re fucked,” Penny added, as if Angie didn’t already know that.
“Without a doubt,” Angie said. “Without a doubt.”
2
One more complaint and we’ll fire you. We won’t want to, but we will.
No matter how intently Angie tried to concentrate on the narrow country road ahead of her, no matter how loudly the Beastie Boys howled about sabotage on her car’s stereo, the warning from Tina replayed in Angie’s traitorous brain.
There’s an announcement tomorrow that will affect you.
God knew what Tina had meant. So now Angie needed to survive a good twelve hours of uncertainty and dread before she discovered her fate. Her plans for the rest of the evening: Home. Bra removal. Beer. Bitching on the phone to her besties. More beer. Buying as many filthy e-books as her Kindle could handle. Finally, reading said e-books alongside various personal appliances until she fell asleep in a blaze of horny glory.
Unfortunately, all these plans required the dude driving the little hybrid in front of her to locate his accelerator soon. If he didn’t, she could kiss the prospect of reading Long Train Coming—the anthology of railway-themed erotica she’d coveted for weeks—goodbye. Instead, she’d spend her evening following him at the speed of an arthritic sloth. For entertainment, she could look at the piles of boxes visible through his car’s rear windows and contemplate the suitcases strapped to his roof as she made her way home.
Anticlimactic, really.
The extreme slowness of the driver surprised her. She’d caught a glimpse of him when they’d rounded a sharp curve, and he looked young. In her experience, people this averse to acceleration whacked passersby with their canes and called people below the age of sixty whippersnappers.
There was no good place to pass the hybrid, though. Despite the fact that she hadn’t seen another car traveling in either direction for a few miles, the twisting road made it dangerous to go around him. Unless he turned onto a side street, she was stuck until she reached her neighborhood. She might as well relax and resign herself to a long, boring ride home.
As their little two-car parade neared the railroad tracks, Angie prepared to brake for the millionth time. To her surprise, though, the hybrid’s taillights didn’t illuminate. The car didn’t slow down. In fact. . . was he accelerating? What the hell?
The car ahead of her jolted over the tracks, the packages in and on the car shifting wildly.
“Oh, shit,” Angie said, darting a quick glance at the shoulder up ahead. Just in case.
For a moment, she thought she’d dodged a bullet. But then, right after she crossed the tracks herself, a suitcase from the car ahead of her rattled loose and flew straight toward her windshield.
“Fuck!” She jerked the steering wheel hard to the right and stomped on the brakes. With a piercing screech, her car shuddered and fishtailed. Her head snapped forward, and the sharp smell of burning rubber made her eyes water. Finally, her car came to a sudden and jarring halt on a patch of grass.
Angie took stock of herself. The seatbelt had locked her into place, and her car hadn’t hit anything. Her neck might prove a little sore in the morning, but all in all, no permanent harm done. The same couldn’t be said for the navy suitcase that had flown off the hybrid’s roof, however. The case itself lay near the side of the two-lane road, splayed open by the impact. Its contents had landed all over the asphalt. A hundred feet ahead of her, the silver car—sans roof suitcase—had pulled off to the shoulder. So far, the driver hadn’t emerged.
Angie’s hands shook from the adrenaline coursing through her veins. Clearly, she couldn’t get back on the road for another minute or two. Not without risking an accident. She took a deep breath and closed her eyes, attempting to calm her pounding heart. The faint crunch of feet on gravel filtered into her ears, but she paid no attention. Breathe in. Breathe out. Breathe in. Breathe out.
A tentative tap on the window next to her made her jump. She opened her eyes and looked up. And up. And up.
A miracle stood beside her car. Or at least what passed for a miracle in rural Nice County, Maryland. The setting sun lit the man from behind, transforming his curly, dark hair into a halo around his head. As she watched, he bent at the waist to peer into her window, but she could still tell that he was tall. Well over six feet. Even in the dusky light, his blue eyes stood out in sharp relief against his pale skin.
Tall. Dark-haired. Handsome. Standing by her window with furrowed brows and his attention completely and utterly on her. Only her. Exactly what she needed to forget her terrible day at work.
Men like this didn’t exist in Angie’s small community—or if they did, they didn’t come her way too often. If he wasn’t a miracle, she could only conclude she’d died in the accident. Decapitation by suitcase wasn’t how she’d pictured going. It seemed kind of undignified. But she supposed most deaths lacked dignity, when you got right down to it. It wasn’t as if she’d lived her life with such a surfeit of decorum anyway.
She took another glance at his blue, blue eyes. Yup. No doubt about it. Death or a miracle. The only other options that sprang to mind, given her usual luck with men: he was going to carjack her. Or atte
mpt to sell her magazines. Or proselytize. Or invite her to his upcoming wedding with Larry.
Of all those choices, a heavenly visitor seemed the best option. So when he tapped on the window again, she rolled it down to meet her Miracle Man. He leaned in closer and surveyed her with worried eyes.
“I’m so sorry,” he said. “I can’t believe I—Jesus. Are you okay?”
“I’m fine. Sadly, the same can’t be said for your suitcase. What happened?”
Not that she really cared. No harm, no foul. She only wanted to get him talking so she could admire him for a few minutes more.
He sighed. “I dropped my sunglasses on the floor. I tried to pick them up and accidentally hit the gas. Also, I’m terrible at strapping things to my roof. Or so the evidence would indicate. I’m so sorry.”
“Don’t worry about it,” she said. “I’m Angie. Happy to meet you, handsome stranger.”
She held out her hand through the open window, and he stared at it for a moment without moving. Then he reached out and gave her fingers a careful squeeze.
“Grant Peterson. Again, I apologize for nearly beheading you with my luggage.” His deep voice rumbled through her ears and sent pleasant vibrations through her body.
At the touch of his skin against her own and the sight of that large hand encompassing hers so fully, she suppressed a shiver. “How tall are you?”
“Six feet and change,” he said, looking startled by the sudden change of topic.
“Because just looking at you makes me feel tiny. I loom over a lot of men, and it’s hard to feel dainty and feminine when you could crush a guy with one gigantic paw.” She waved her hand.
The corners of his lips tugged upward. At the same time, his eyes discreetly swept downward, taking a quick but careful inventory of all her important bits. “Dainty is overrated. And I don’t think any man would doubt you’re a woman. Not even if you were ten feet tall.”
Right after he spoke, his expression changed. He suddenly looked. . . confused. Disoriented. Why, Angie had no idea. She sympathized, though. At the moment, she felt a bit befuddled herself. Unbelievably flattered, but still. Befuddled. This guy seemed too good to be true. Hot, well spoken, and sweet... There had to be something wrong with him. But what?
Everything about this man is absolutely right, her instincts insisted. Come on, Burrowes. Gather ye studs while ye may.
She couldn’t trust her own instincts, though. After all, they’d almost gotten her fired earlier today. So before she did what they were screaming for her to do—claim this man before he got away—she needed to address a few key issues.
“What a lovely compliment,” she said. “Grant, do you mind if I ask you a few questions?”
He blinked at her. “I . . . suppose so. Okay.”
“Are you single? And straight?” she asked. “It’s fine if you aren’t straight, by the way. I can admire you in a different way. Like you’re a statue. Or a hot priest. You know, gorgeous but out of reach.”
“Yes. To both questions.” The tips of his ears had turned pink, only adding to his adorability.
“Are you a serial killer? Be honest.”
“Of course not,” he said. “But wouldn’t I say that even if I were?”
“That’s true.” She tapped her chin with her index finger. “I’ll have to hope if you are a murderer, you only hunt other killers.”
“I think those types of murderers are less common than television would have us believe.”
She laughed. “You’re probably right about that.”
“Rest assured that the only danger I pose to you comes in the form of airborne baggage.”
“That’s nice to hear,” she said.
She took a moment to bask in the glory of Grant Peterson, the only man she’d ever interrogated this way. Something about him—his looks, his concern, the hint of shyness—made her breath catch and sent electricity buzzing through her veins. Warmed her, inside and out.
The tiniest bit of dark stubble roughened his cheeks and chin, accentuating his strong jaw. He’d rolled the sleeves of his button-down shirt up to his elbows, exposing hair-dusted forearms and broad hands that seemed strong. Capable. From what she could tell through his clothes, his flat stomach flowed into slim hips and firm thighs. She chose to avoid looking between those thighs. No point in sexually harassing the man—well, not more than she already had—until she knew the answer to her last question.
The man was handsome. No question about that. But Angie had spied other handsome men before and never experienced this sort of instantaneous magnetic draw. Hell, she could barely stop from plastering herself to his side like an iron filing.
So maybe she wasn’t responding to his handsomeness. At least, not entirely. Maybe what tempted her most was the aura of innocence surrounding him. With those dark curls, clear blue eyes, and pale skin, he looked like a grown-up choirboy. Like a man who’d chosen the right path—the reasonable, honorable one—his entire life.
She couldn’t help it. She wanted to debauch him.
“I hesitate to ask,” he said. “But do you have any more questions?” He smiled at her again, this time showing a few teeth. Even, white teeth. Either the man had won the genetics lottery or he’d suffered through years of braces, like she had.
She took a deep breath and went for it. “Are you interested? In me?”
His eyes flicked down to the pavement. He waited so long to answer that her belly clenched and the beginnings of an embarrassed flush heated her cheeks.
“It’s okay if you aren’t,” she said. “I know we just met, and—”
“I don’t usually move this fast, but . . . yes. Yes, I’m interested,” he said, meeting her eyes again. “And I have three questions to ask you.” He set his hands on the bottom of the car window frame and leaned toward her.
“Bring ’em on.” She grinned at him and laid a hand on the frame between his.
Yes, I’m single. Yes, I’m straight. Yes, I’d like to watch you turn around and bend from the waist to pick up something from the ground.
No fear. She could answer any question he wanted.
“Are you sure you’re all right? Do you want to get examined at the hospital?”
She’d imagined a sexier first question. Not a sweeter or more considerate one, though.
“I’m fine,” she said. “My neck might be a little sore, but that’s about it. No need to worry. What’s your second question?”
“Are you always this . . . impulsive?” he asked.
Her smile faded, and she struggled to bring it back. “Ever since I was a kid. Believe it or not, my parents are actuaries. I’m a grave disappointment to them.”
As she spoke, his brows drew together. He looked down to where his hands lay near hers on the window frame. With great deliberation, he moved his right index finger until it nudged against her own. The tiny touch sent unbelievable warmth up through her arm, arrowing to her chest.
“That wasn’t a criticism, Angie,” he said softly. “Only a question.”
“What’s your third one?” She looked down at their hands for a moment, marveling at the unexpected sweetness of comfort offered through a single fingertip.
“Will you stay here while I clean up this mess”—he nodded toward the cluttered roadway—“and then let me buy you a drink?”
She grinned at him. “No.”
“No?” His face fell, and his hands curled in on themselves.
“No. I’ll get out and help you. And then you can buy me a drink.”
“You don’t have to. I’m at fault here,” he protested.
Weird. His eyes had brightened at her answer, but he still seemed kind of... anxious. Squirrelly. The last time she’d seen someone this fidgety, little Freddie had run out of her Saturday storytime with his hands clutching his crotch. But Grant didn’t look like he had to pee. No, he looked like he was hiding something. But what?
“I know I don’t have to. I want to,” she said. “Now please scooch a bit so I can
get out of my car.”
“Sooner or later, another car is going to pass by, and I don’t want you dodging traffic on the road. It would make me nervous. And like I said, it’s my mess. I’ll clean it up.”
She unfastened her seatbelt and gave him a little bump with her car door. “I’m a big girl, Grant. I appreciate your concern, but I can take care of myself. There’s no need to do this on your own.”
His face had turned a vivid shade of pink, although he moved aside to let her out. “But I—”
“Let’s knock this out so we can go get a drink. There’s the suitcase.” She pointed to where it lay on the road. “If you grab it, I can help you repack it with—” For the first time, she took a closer look at the road and the suitcase contents strewn all over it. Were those . . . ? Yes. Yes, they were. She’d seen them many times before, obviously. But not in this particular context. Or in this particular quantity.
He stood silently and shifted from foot to foot, his eyes on the suitcase.
“Holy shit, Grant. Did a condom factory explode all over the road? Or are you just happy to see me?”
C.S. Smith Photography
Olivia Dade grew up an undeniable—and proud—nerd, prone to ignoring the world around her as she read any book she could find. Her favorite stories, though, were always romances. As an adult, she earned an M.A. in American history and worked in a variety of jobs that required her to hide her bawdy interior under a demure exterior: Colonial Williamsburg interpreter, high school teacher, academic tutor, and (of course) librarian. Finally, though, she realized the call of the hussy could no longer be denied. So now she writes contemporary romantic comedy with plenty of sex, banter, and nerdery. When not writing, she cooks alongside her husband, dabbles in photography, and tries to hide her collection of throbbing-intensive romances from her curious daughter. Visit her on the Web at oliviadade.com.
To the extent that the image or images on the cover of this book depict a person or persons, such person or persons are merely models, and are not intended to portray any character or characters featured in the book.
